The Frostling

 The Frostling

Every year, my small town of Wintershade held a Christmas Eve festival, complete with carolers, a tree-lighting ceremony, and hot cocoa stands. But there was one rule everyone followed without question:

Never build a snowman after midnight.

It was a silly tradition, or so I thought. When I asked my mom about it, she avoided the question, her expression darkening. The only explanation I ever got came from Old Man Griggs, the town recluse.

“They come alive after midnight,” he said one day, leaning heavily on his cane. His voice was low, his tone grave. “If you’re lucky, they’ll just watch you. If you’re not…”

He didn’t finish, but the scar across his face said enough.

Of course, my friends and I didn’t believe him. We were teenagers, and rules were meant to be broken. That’s why, last Christmas Eve, we decided to test the legend.

The festival ended around 11 PM, and by the time we gathered on the edge of the park, the town was quiet. The snow was untouched, glittering under the pale moonlight. Armed with scarves, hats, and an arsenal of mischief, we got to work.

Our snowman was enormous. We rolled massive snowballs for the base, middle, and head, stacking them precariously. We gave him stick arms, coal eyes, and a crooked carrot nose. It was almost 12:30 AM by the time we finished.

“He’s perfect,” Jake said, stepping back to admire our work. “The Frostling.”

“Terrifying,” I joked, snapping a picture with my phone. The snowman looked harmless—almost goofy with its lopsided grin.

But then the air changed.

The wind died suddenly, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. The temperature plummeted, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“Guys,” Lily whispered. “Do you hear that?”

At first, I thought it was just the crunch of snow under our boots. But then I realized the sound was coming from the snowman.

A soft, rhythmic creaking, like ice shifting on a frozen lake.

“Very funny,” I said, rolling my eyes at Jake. “Who rigged it?”

But Jake looked just as confused—and scared—as I felt.

The snowman’s head tilted. Slowly. The coal eyes seemed to sink deeper into its face, and the crooked grin widened unnaturally, splitting the snow like a jagged crack.

“What the hell?” Lily gasped, stumbling back.

Before any of us could move, the snowman’s arms shot out. The sticks splintered and elongated, turning into claw-like icicles. It lurched forward, its massive body moving with a horrifying fluidity, like the snow itself was alive.

Jake screamed as one of its clawed hands wrapped around his leg, dragging him down. He thrashed, kicking at the snow, but his foot sank deeper into the freezing grip.

“Help me!” he cried, his voice choking on terror.

We grabbed his arms, pulling with everything we had. But the snowman was too strong. It let out a low, guttural sound—a laugh that didn’t belong in this world. Jake’s screams cut off as the snow engulfed him, swallowing him whole. In seconds, he was gone.

The Frostling turned toward us, its grin now wide enough to split its head in two. The coal eyes glowed faintly, and it took another step forward.

“Run!” I shouted, grabbing Lily’s arm.

We sprinted through the park, the sound of creaking snow and cracking ice following close behind. I didn’t dare look back, but I could feel it—feel its eyes boring into me.

We made it to Lily’s house and slammed the door behind us, locking it tight. For hours, we sat huddled in the dark, listening to the faint crunch of snow outside the window. When dawn finally came, the sound stopped.

Jake was never found. The town called it a tragic accident, blaming thin ice on the frozen lake. But Lily and I knew the truth.

This year, the festival feels different. The townsfolk are quieter, more cautious. And every night since the first snowfall, I’ve felt it watching me.

The Frostling isn’t just a story. It’s real. And it’s waiting for someone foolish enough to build another snowman after midnight.

Don’t make the same mistake we did.